


sunlight on the sea floor

by blackkat



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Fix-It, Friendship, Humor, Kirigakure | Hidden Mist Village, M/M, Romance, but he fixes things anyway, is Obito insane or just hella guilty, the world may never know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-23
Updated: 2018-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-08 13:46:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13459512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackkat/pseuds/blackkat
Summary: Even the darkest night gives way to dawn eventually.(And sometimes, sometimes the dawn has a bit of help. Even the most desperately flickering candle still casts a light, after all.)





	sunlight on the sea floor

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this not understanding how it would _ruin my life_ , okay. I ship this so hard and I didn't even _know it_. WHY.

In the darkness, in the depth of the night, the silence has teeth.

Obito is familiar with the stifled calm of the base when no one else is moving; he’s lived in the space of moments like this for the last ten years, grim and bitter and rotting in the hush. Tonight seems longer than every other night that came before it, and he drags himself through hallways and empty rooms with a ghostly red moon one step behind him and blood dripping from his hands. It leaves streaks on the walls as he scrapes his fingertips over the stone, but they’ll be gone in the morning and Obito can never quite decide if he regrets that or not.

A thousand times worse than the nights Rin whispers to him are the nights she’s silent, and he hears that gasping, unfinished breath over and over, echoing in his ears.

Akatsuki is gone, out on missions or wandering on their own, and the base is eerie in its still darkness. Obito has mapped every inch of floor a thousand times already, waiting for plans to amount to anything at all, but he walks them again because there's an itch under his skin, bloodthirsty branches curled and waiting. If he stays still too long, there will be a forest underground next time he stirs, and Zetsu always berates him for such loses of control.

A ragged breath, and he pauses in the hall, catching himself on the stone. Not tired, not yet, but—

When Rin goes silent, another voice rises to replace her, and this one sounds like Kushina.

The laugh that escapes Obito's throat is full of broken glass, shattered and awful. It _aches_ , and he presses a hand over his face, bare of any masks, and digs his fingers into his scars. Thinks of Kushina, with her hair as red as spilled blood, and the way she screamed, and the way she smiled at him, and wants to claw his skin right off.

He doesn’t want to save Rin. Not really. He wants to make a world where none of this ever happened, or _could_ have happened. Somewhere red moons can't touch.

The crash of a breaking bottle makes Obito lift his head, world automatically shifting sideways into the burning focus of the Sharingan as he waits. No more glass-sounds, but a low groan, and with the red moon over him Obito is more reckless than he might be otherwise. He lets Kamui ripple through him, steps through the wall and ghosts across the library behind it. The next wall leads to one of the empty rooms that litter the base, and Obito slips through it, clinging to the shadows.

No intruder. No enemy. Just a scattered carpet of broken glass and overturned chairs, only one still standing. Kisame is slumped in it, forehead pillowed on his arm where it rests on the table, and there are six bottles lined up in front of him. Another is in his hand, nearly empty, but it’s definitely not his first. Obito assesses the amount of glass on the floor, the heavy stoop of Kisame's shoulders and the way he doesn’t even stir under Obito's stare, and grimaces.

Apparently he isn’t the only one caught by his worst memories tonight.

He turns to leave, because grief is personal until it can be forged into a weapon, but one step back towards the hall and the Kushina-voice is whispering, loud and fierce in his head. Obito stops before he can even contemplate the action, freezes stock-still with one hand already phased through the wall, and closes his eyes.

 _Comrades_ , something deep and half-drowned within him breathes. _Those who break the rules are—_

He shuts the thought away, strangles it ruthlessly but turns back regardless. No mask, but—Kisame is drunk, so incredibly drunk that anyone without his constitution would likely be dead four bottles ago. He’s not going to remember anything about this encounter.

“It’s a long night, isn’t it?” he asks quietly, and his sandals crunch across the floor. One chair still looks mostly whole, and he rights it, shakes off the glass, and sinks down across from the swordsman.

Kisame doesn’t twitch or give any sign he realizes he’s suddenly not alone, but he groans, muffled and pained. “’M not supposed to remember anymore,” he says, almost plaintively, and his arm curls like he’s trying to protect himself from dark thoughts.

It aches a little, in a way Obito had thought he was rid of. He turns away, looks at the wall instead of Kisame with an uncomfortable itch beneath his skin.

“Drinking just makes the worst memories float to the surface,” he says, grimly amused, because he tried it himself once. There's an abandoned corner of Fire Country that will never be the same because of it.

“They’re already there,” Kisame says, fingers twisting in his hair. A shuddering breath, worse than any outright sob, and he lifts his head, bringing the bottle to his lips. The last few inches disappear, and he pushes the empty bottle aside, then hunches forward.

Obito watches him for a long moment, still and faintly unsettled, and then breathes out, long and slow.

“It’s an anniversary,” he realizes.

Kisame chuckles, horrible and hollow, and lifts his head. In the dark room, his strange eyes glow, and the look on his face is the same as the one Obito avoids in mirrors. “It doesn’t mean anything,” he says. “It’s just a day. I don’t even know _when_.”

Obito can hardly even remember today’s date, let alone what Kisame was doing at this time last year, or the year before. But—this has the feel of old grief, something that’s festered for years. It’s something Obito is all too familiar with.

“A mission you failed?” he asks quietly.

Kisame looks away, swiping for another bottle and missing entirely. Silently, Obito takes it, breaks the seal and uncorks it, then passes it over. With a grunt that could be thanks, Kisame takes it and tips it back, taking a long swallow before he says, “My mission—I did it. Got home and he was gone.” For an instant, something like muddled fury sparks, and he growls, lurching forward like he’s going to grab Obito, but his coordination is off. He crashes into the table, rattling it, and only Obito's quick grab rescues the remaining awamori bottles. Kisame's hands scrape helplessly at the wood for a moment, and then he laughs, harsh and angry.

“His sword,” Kisame says, grinning like it’s all some joke, but when he meets Obito's gaze there's nothing but grief and rage in his eyes. “They _kept his sword_. I couldn’t—I couldn’t find it.”

Obito looks from Kisame to Samehada, leaning up against a corner of the room and safely out of the way. Between Kisame having been on a mission and mention of a sword, the list of people Kisame could be mourning is cut down to five, disregarding Kisame himself and the female member of the Seven Swordsmen. Maybe further, even—Obito can recall hearing that Team Chōza encountered the Seven Swordsmen, and Gai's father sacrificed himself to kill most of them and let the team escape.

“What happened?” he asks quietly.

For a long moment, it seems like Kisame is going to lunge again, flip the table, attack. His muscles bunch, and the expression on his face is nothing but a promise of violence. Obito isn’t worried; not even Kisame can touch him in a fight, so he simply stays where he is, watching Kisame without flinching.

Maybe it’s his lack of fear, or maybe it’s the fact that Kisame is truly too drunk to manage a fight. He collapses back into his chair, burying his face in his hands, and laughs like he’s going to shake apart. “I don’t know,” he confesses, and the words break. “Jinpachi wouldn’t—”

Jinpachi. Probably Munashi Jinpachi, wielder of the sword Shibuki, Obito thinks. That takes him out of the running as well. Only three other possibilities, but—

He looks at Kisame, all but collapsed in his seat, and can't bring himself to push for further answers. It’s a long night, a dark night, and surviving until the sun rises is already going to be hard enough for both of them.

Carefully, quietly, he pushes to his feet. Kisame doesn’t look up to watch him go, stays where he is as if breathing is all he can manage right now, and Obito can't force himself to look back as he turns and steps into the twisting warp of Kamui.

Darkness, echoing and empty, another spiral of space and time, and Obito steps out into a dimly lit office. Yagura isn’t present, but that’s fine. Obito doesn’t particularly care to deal with other people right now.

He takes half a moment to orient himself. The Records Department here is halfhearted at best, and they don’t even have a shinobi registration system, but famous shinobi are tracked. What he’s looking for should be easy enough to find.

Even if it isn’t, Obito will keep looking. The red moon is waiting behind him, ready to swallow him whole if he looks back, but the blood on his hands isn’t quite as thick as before.

Kushina's voice in his head is louder, but Obito can bear it, if only just.

 

 

The whole world is water and darkness, untouched by sunlight. No form to anything, no anchor, and he drifts without so much as a thought to catch him. There isn’t pain, but in some distant, huddled part of himself he almost wishes there was, because even pain is better than nothing at all.

In his memory, the day is bright.

Closing his eyes is futile when there’s not _him_ to begin with. Thoughts come vague and hazy, but—

No sun on the training grounds, though slanting rays touch the sea beyond. A breeze that smells of brine and sand relieves the muggy heat, if only for a moment, and he rubs a hand across his face, trying to get his breath back. Both of his water bottles are empty, but Hiramekarei is finally _listening_ and he doesn’t want to stop now and lose the feeling.

From behind him on the rocks, there's a low chuckle, a thump. He turns, grabbing for Hiramekarei automatically, and crystal-blue chakra sparks, ready to swing.

Not an enemy, though—blue skin, sharp teeth bared in a cheerful grin, Samehada slung across a broad back. He lets out a breath, Hiramekarei dipping slightly as he relaxes, and the other swordsman gives him a cheerful wave.

“Heard you mastered the Twinsword,” Kisame says lightly. “That’s the last of ‘em, isn’t it? Pretty impressive.”

“Hoshigaki,” he says politely, and wonders if this is going to be another bout of hazing disguised as a welcome. The rest of the Swordsmen are from the higher castes, and he’s most decidedly not. Even a grandfather who was the Mizukage can't save him from the looks—makes it worse, even, he sometimes thinks.

Kisame doesn’t approach, though, just pulls Samehada from his back. “Hōzuki,” he answers easily, and that grin isn’t wavering. “Want to spar?”

That’s hardly definite proof that this isn’t more hazing, but if he couldn’t hold his own against another of the Swordsmen he wouldn’t be here at all. Still, there isn’t enough time for a full spar, especially against someone like Hoshigaki Kisame. “Not today. I have—”

“Mangetsu!”

_Mangetsu._

The name ripples through him, a chord struck in his memory that doesn’t quite jar him out of it, but…resonates. For a moment he’s standing on that bright stretch of beach, but he’s also drifting, caught in the swift twist of an eddy that shatters his thoughts into whirling shards. Reaching, grasping, holding out a hand but there’s nothing, nothing to cling to, and—

“Mangetsu! You said you would wait for me!”

Mangetsu turns, startled. Suigetsu is on the path that winds back towards the village, hands planted on his hips and expression offended. The Academy, he thinks, and wants to wince. He got caught up with Hiramekarei—it must be late already.

“Sorry, Suigetsu,” he answers, and the bandages slide back up to cover his sword. “I was training.”

Suigetsu rolls his eyes, but looks faintly appeased as he leaps down into the training ground, then tilts his head back to look Kisame over in obvious assessment. “With Kisame-senpai?” he asks.

Kisame's brows rise, and a moment later he chuckles. “Senpai? I think you’ve got a ways to go before you can call me that,” he says, but it’s cheerful enough that he probably didn’t take offense.

Suigetsu, of course, huffs and puffs his chest up. “I'm going to master all seven swords just like my brother!” he declares. “And then I'm going to be the leader of the Seven Swordsmen!”

Mangetsu smiles a little, even though he wants to roll his eyes right back. “You have to graduate first,” he reminds his brother, and Suigetsu pulls a face at him that makes him chuckle. “If you finish your homework we can train until dinnertime, okay?”

“Homework is _boring_ ,” Suigetsu protests, but he drags his bookbag over to a large rock and scrambles up onto the flat top, settling down cross-legged with a scowl.

Practicing any kind of kenjutsu while Suigetsu is around is futile, Mangetsu knows from experience. He’s easily distracted by any kind of sword-work, and he has enough problems with the teachers at the Academy without turning his work in late or half-completed. With a sigh, he sets Hiramekarei aside, leaning it up against a boulder, and resigns himself to studying ninjutsu until Suigetsu is done.

“Sorry, Hoshigaki,” he says politely, because Kisame is still standing there, watching them with amused, intent eyes, like he’s weighing something. Mangetsu can't begin to guess what. “I’d be happy to fight another time.”

Kisame chuckles, apparently unbothered by the refusal. He looks Mangetsu over, head to toes and then back up again, and steps back, slinging Samehada over his shoulder. “Soon,” he says agreeably. “I think Samehada likes you. Not many people I can say that about.”

Samehada was a terrifying sword to train with—an adrenaline rush every time Mangetsu picked it up, but always a challenge on the very edge of what he could handle. He eyes the sword for a moment, secure in its wrappings, and wonders what he must have missed, to have gotten its approval. Not dying? That seems like something Samehada would look for.

“Samehada is an impressive sword,” he says, which seems noncommittal enough. Neither Samehada nor Hiramekarei had wielders when Mangetsu trained with them, but after four months with Samehada he was more than ready for something simpler. Hiramekarei is a tricky blade, but nothing like Samehada.

Kisame flushes faintly, as if Mangetsu just complimented his child, and he pats the blade fondly. “Be fun to fight someone who knows Samehada’s tricks,” he says cheerfully, then lifts a hand. “See you around, Hōzuki.” A spin on his heel, like it’s some child’s magic trick instead of a ninja’s jutsu, and he vanishes in a whirl of mist.

Well. Not a hazing, apparently.

Mangetsu tips his head, considering the empty air, and curls his fingers into his palm. The Hoshigaki Clan are from a high caste—their missions are usually simple, if not exactly easy, and their pay is higher. They're beloved by the village, heroes of Water Country; when Kisame killed Fuguki and took his place, it was hailed as a good day for Kiri.

When a low caste brat decided he was going to master every single one of the blades, and _did it_ , people whispered about rebellions and putting down dissidents before they could become a threat.

“Mangetsu?” Suigetsu asks, and it’s wary in a way Mangetsu wishes he didn’t understand. It’s familiar, though; he and Suigetsu are alone, and they have to look out for each other.

“What is it?” he asks, turning and offering Suigetsu a quick smile.

Unconvinced, Suigetsu looks from the spot where Kisame was to Mangetsu, eyes narrowing. “Is that guy being an asshole too?” he demands.

Mangetsu only just manages not to snort in amusement. Somehow, even if Kisame _had_ been an asshole, he doesn’t think there's a lot that a six-year-old could do to change things. “No,” he says, because Suigetsu is definitely the type to _try_ , regardless. “He was just being friendly.”

It’s only after Mangetsu says it that he really realizes it’s true. He’s good at picking out ulterior motives and hidden agendas, but Kisame's actions didn’t strike him as anything but a request for a spar, a friendly overture between the two newest swordsmen. Maybe Mangetsu wouldn’t have taken Jinpachi or Ameyuri up on the invitation, because there's no way it would be a simple fight with either of them, but with Kisame…

Mangetsu wants to think he can trust him, no matter his position. If it really will be nothing but a spar, one swordsman to another, Mangetsu is more than willing. A bit of blood shed between comrades, with no intention of betrayal? He can't think of a better way to train and grow his strength.

“Mangetsu! Quit daydreaming and come help me!” Suigetsu huffs, annoyed and pouty in equal measure, and Mangetsu rolls his eyes a little as he turns back to his brother.

“I don’t remember volunteering to help you,” he retorts, “and if I was daydreaming it was only about finding a _challenging_ fight.”

Suigetsu screws up his face in an expression of pure offended disgust. “I'm _challenging_! You just don’t want to fight me because you're old and boring and _exhausted_.”

“I'm seventeen, not seventy.” Just for that, Mangetsu snags Suigetsu’s water bottle and takes a long drink, practically able to feel his cells rehydrating in a rush of pure relief. “Don’t you have mapping to work on?”

“Rakue-sensei is a hag,” Suigetsu mutters, making another face, but he drags out his charts and pencils anyway. “Kiri _lost_ this battle, why do I have to map it out?”

“So you know _why_ they lost,” Mangetsu tells him, exasperated. “Do you really think Rakue-sensei elects to read your terrible handwriting for _fun_?”

“My handwriting isn’t _terrible_!”

“Blind chickens could do better,” Mangetsu says, because it’s always good to give Suigetsu a push to improve. He’s easily distracted otherwise.

As expected, Suigetsu huffs loudly, drags the papers closer, and declares, “I’ll show you! I’ll have the neatest papers and then you’ll have to buy me jellies!”

A few jelly cups are more than worth it for a complete set of worksheets, so Mangetsu doesn’t argue, just hums in a tone Suigetsu will mistake for skepticism and slides off the edge of the rock. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Ignoring the strident protest from behind him, he digs out one of the old clan scrolls he’s been trying to decipher and settles on a patch of clear ground, unrolling the paper pointedly.

“You're going to get fat and dumb if you don’t practice,” is Suigetsu’s loudly offered opinion.

“I _was_ practicing,” Mangetsu says without looking up. “That’s why I forgot to pick you up after class, remember?”

“ _Daydreaming_ ,” Suigetsu accuses, “like a _loser_.”

“One of us here just mastered all seven of the Swordsmen’s blades, and somehow, I don’t think it’s you. Do your homework.”

“ _Do you homework_ , nyeehh,” Suigetsu mocks in a nasally voice, but when Mangetsu glances up at him with a raised brow he’s bent over his homework, which probably counts as a win.

Not willing to test a minor victory, Mangetsu goes back to translating the archaic language of his scroll, and considers a little absently when he’ll be able to find Kisame for that spar. A little uncomplicated fun would be good right about now.

 

 

Memory may as well be the last bastion of sanity here. He reaches for understanding, for rationalization. For the reason that he’s here, or even where here _is_ , but—

Swirling water, just enough movement to break apart his fingers as he reaches out, without no light and no sound and nothing, nothing at all.

So much easier, given that, to slide back into a dim recollection of—

Sunlight on a sword’s blade, sunlight on the water. The clouds haven’t broken, but they rarely do, and Mangetsu might go so far as to say he likes the piercing golden rays that arrow down from the sky more than he would simple sunlight. Other countries always feel too bright to him, too exposed; Kiri’s mist is strangling and pervasive but it’s also _home_ , especially to a shinobi.

He pauses in the street, turning his face towards the ray that surrounds him, and tries to get his tired brain to think something coherent beyond a vague _pretty_. The exhaustion is weighing at him, though, and he’s not quite dripping blood anymore but it’s a near thing. Three days moving fast, pursuing a group of Kumo missing-nin making themselves a problem in Water Country, and Mangetsu wants nothing more than to find a bed and collapse for at least a day. He still has to report to the Mizukage, though, inform him that the mission is complete and there were no survivors.

Just a minute, he tells himself, bracing an arm against the curving wall of a building and letting his head drop. There's no one in the street right now, and he’s in a sparsely populated part of the village; he can afford to take a few moments to himself. Forcing himself to movement again will just be harder, but that’s fine. Mangetsu isn’t entirely certain he could keep moving anyway.

“Hey!” a loud, cheerful voice calls, and Mangetsu startles, twists around with his heart leaping into his throat. Even exhausted, his reflexes don’t fail him, and he has a water bullet formed at his fingertip by the time he’s turned, leveled and ready to shoot.

Kisame chuckles, raising his hands like that would do anything to make him harmless. “Hey there,” he says easily, and sweeps a look over Mangetsu. It’s what he always does, and Mangetsu is getting used to it now, after meeting to spar a handful of times. A Kisame thing, he’s labeled it. There seem to be quite a lot of those, though it’s not like Mangetsu objects to knowing them. “Looks like you had fun out there.”

Mangetsu smiles at him, just a little, because he actually did. Zabuza might be the best at the Hiding in Mist techniques, but Mangetsu likes the challenge of real mist, where sound echoes oddly and there's no guarantee the cover will linger. “Kumo nin,” he says in explanation, and Kisame's grin gains even more teeth. Maybe it’s part of being relative neighbors, but Kiri and Kumo have always been on the edge of outright warfare, and a chance to kill a few Kumo shinobi isn’t something any Mist nin would pass up.

With a laugh, Kisame slings an arm around Mangetsu’s shoulders, and to anyone else it might look like he’s leaning on Mangetsu, but Mangetsu can feel how Kisame is helping to hold him up. He doesn’t even try to protest, just leans into it gratefully as Kisame steers him towards the Administration Center.

“Was it a good fight?” Kisame asks as the quiet street merges with one of the busier lanes through the heart of the village. Dripping trees and swathes of moss glitter like they’ve been scattered with gems in the sunlight, and Mangetsu sweeps his gaze over them, taking in the rare sight. Times like this he wishes for the Uchiha Clan’s Sharingan. Not for fighting—between the concealment of the mist, his kenjutsu, and his Hōzuki Clan specialties, he doesn’t need it—but…sometimes it would be nice to remember the good things in perfect detail.

“It was,” he says, and ghosts a touch across Hiramekarei’s wrapped blade, lips curling back from his sharpened teeth as he remembers the screams. “They started abandoning the slower members of their group as they ran. I don’t think any of them had been to Water Country before, so picking them off was fun.”

Kisame laughs outright at that. “Next time share the hunt,” he teases. “I was stuck on guard duty the whole time.”

Mangetsu makes an appropriate face at that, because death is a worse fate, really. Still, he’s not about to tell Kisame the odds of his mission succeeding, or just how unlikely it is that part of the Hoshigaki Clan would be sent on a potential suicide run. “Next time,” he agrees instead, because he enjoys missions with Kisame more than he likely should. Going on an actual hunt with him would be even better.

Looking eminently pleased, Kisame squeezes his shoulders, loosens his grip slightly in silent warning, and then as soon as Mangetsu is steady steps away. The door of the Center looms in front of them, with guards at attention by the doors, neither of whom blink at the sight of Mangetsu painted almost entirely red with blood not his own.

“Thank you,” Mangetsu tells Kisame, and means it. After their first spar failed to end with one of them dead or in need of a hospital, he’d more or less expected camaraderie, but he’s gotten it and then some. Kisame is steady and cheerful, maybe not quite _kind_ but probably the closest a Kiri nin can get to it.

A trace of red colors Kisame's cheeks, and he grins almost bashfully, scratching at the bridge of his nose. “Glad you're back,” is all he says, though. “Whenever I pick fights with Zabuza that kid of his looks like he wants to hamstring me. At least your tagalong enjoys the show.”

Mangetsu snorts, because Suigetsu _definitely_ approves of his new sparring partner. He likes to think that he’s too cool for hero worship, but he’s on the very edge of it where Kisame is concerned. “Soon,” he promises, because as much as he’d love to indulge in the kind of fight both he and Kisame love, right now he’s just too tired.

Kisame claps him lightly on the shoulder, beaming. “I’ll look forward to it,” he says cheerfully, then pauses, looking Mangetsu over again. Mangetsu raises a curious eyebrow in return, because Kisame has seen him in far worse states than this and he can't understand what could be so interesting about it.

Flush darkening a little, Kisame chuckles, then pulls away. “For the Second Coming of the Demon, you’re really pretty,” he says, and it’s admiring instead of derisive, so clearly meant in a good way and—

Entirely startled, Mangetsu stares, his brain trying to comprehend the words. Trying to process the look on Kisame's face, which is the very furthest thing from expectation. Just—honest. He means the words. He thinks Mangetsu is _pretty_.

Maybe it’s because Mangetsu has been awake for seventy-two hours at this point, blood drying sticky on his skin, sword in hand and attention narrowed down to kill or be killed, but he reaches out, catches Kisame's elbow as the other swordsman goes to step away. “Wait,” he blurts, and Kisame looks surprised too, but he turns agreeably, not expectant, not waiting. Like it was just a compliment, and too many people have looked at Mangetsu and thought he was weedy and scrawny and the furthest thing from what a Kiri swordsman _should_ look like, but—

Not Kisame.

“I was going to take Suigetsu out to dinner tomorrow,” he says, and it’s not even _true,_ but it could be. “Would you like to come?”

It’s the first time he’s ever caught Kisame off guard. Luminescent eyes go wide, and the red on his cheeks deepens three shades. He runs a hand over his hair, looking flattered, and smiles widely. “You sure?” he asks, and Mangetsu’s heart turns tight spirals in his chest, because the question is almost _shy._ “He probably missed you, and I don’t want to intrude.”

“You're not intruding if I invited you,” Mangetsu tells him, and lets his hand slide down Kisame's arm to touch the back of his hand lightly. Kisame doesn’t even hesitate; he turns his hand over, catching Mangetsu’s fingers and squeezing gently. When Mangetsu glances up at him, he finds Kisame staring back with a smile on his face, and has to swallow at the warmth that’s visible there.

Slowly enough that the movement is obvious, Kisame reaches up, brushing a fingertip over a streak of half-dry blood on Mangetsu’s cheek. “It’s a good look on you,” he says cheerfully, touches a strand of white hair gone clumpy with dried gore, and then pulls away. “Tomorrow,” he promises, and turns.

Mangetsu watches him walk away, broad-shouldered and bright in the sunlight, bearing Samehada’s weight easily. Not quite able to stop himself—not quite sure he _wants_ to—Mangetsu presses his fingers over the spot on his cheek that Kisame touched, closes his eyes, and breathes out.

He wonders, with only a fraction of the appropriate dread surfacing through the warm giddy wonder, how he’s going to tell Suigetsu that he’s been volunteered to sit in on his older brother’s date.

 

 

Mangetsu _remembers_ , and it’s enough of a push that he makes an effort, herculean and bewildering in its scope. He reaches, reaches with every part of himself to find the edges where his being slips sideways into something else, the divide between his own body and the swirling current. Grasps, _heaves_ , drags his molecules back together with a greater effort of will than he’s ever had to put in before.

Slowly, agonizingly, he takes shape. Fingers form in the dark water, stretch out, scratch stone. He gasps out a string of bubbles, grabs for his chakra, but it’s not _there_. A physical form is hard enough, and all his concentration is on keeping his body together. He doesn’t have enough attention to try for a jutsu, and even if he did he’s not sure what he could do. There's no _air_ , and when he’s formless he doesn’t need to breathe, but like this he does. Every moment he holds his form he’s a moment closer to drowning, and the only way to save himself is to go back to drifting, the spinning current scattering all the pieces of his body into a formless tangle.

Whoever trapped him here knew _exactly_ what they were doing, he thinks despairingly, furiously, closing his eyes as another rush of bubbles escapes him. Die or drift, and it doesn’t matter that they're almost the same fate in the end. He only has two choices.

Helpless, raging, he slams a fist into the stone in front of him, feels molecules only halfheartedly held together burst and scatter. Tries with the other hand, digging his fingers into the seam between metal and rock. It doesn’t budge, doesn’t even _begin_ to, and Mangetsu grits his teeth, remembers Kisame's hands on his face, the way their mouths collided that night, the way Kisame pulled him close the night after that.

He _remembers_ , and it’s not _fair_ that he has to let that go if he wants to live just a little longer, trapped in the hope that someone will find him, someone will come. Jinpachi took Hiramekarei, and Suigetsu at least must know he’d never give up his sword no matter what, even at the edge of death. Mangetsu can't even begin to imagine how long it’s been, but—

Not that long, surely. _Surely_. Someone would have come for him by now.

His lungs are starting to ache, and he can feel the molecular shift, the same instinctive transformation that leaves the Hōzuki Clan members in a liquid state when they're unconscious. Holding together takes concentration, and Mangetsu doesn’t have any to spare. He curses silently, throws himself forward against the metal and thinks of sunlight, Kisame's smile, Suigetsu’s laughter. Braces himself for one last try before the current takes him again—

There's a vast, groaning creak, rusted metal forced open, and Mangetsu surfaces with a cry that’s close to pain. He lashes out, grabbing desperately for the opening, only to feel warm skin catch his hands instead of metal.

“Easy,” a rough voice says, and then, “ _Focus_.”

Mangetsu shouldn’t need the reminder—he’s been using the Hydrification jutsu since before he even entered the Academy—but hearing it said blatantly like that is akin to a slap, startling enough that he stops scrambling for a handhold and concentrates. Even as he does, a strong grip pulls him up, drags him out of the current and up onto smooth rock, and Mangetsu can _feel_ his body wrench back together. He cries out, hunching in on himself at the strange, twisting pull of his cells returning to their proper places, and it’s only now that he’s out of the water that he registers the presence of foreign chakra. Not much, just enough to keep the water spinning like a vortex, but it also was more than enough to keep his body incohesive, not quite able to form up completely.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, and curls his arms around himself, trying to get his breath back.

The stranger who pulled him out doesn’t linger. Mangetsu can hear him rising, a grunt of effort, and then the metal portal slamming shut with a ringing crash. It makes him flinch, and he wants to curse himself for that small bit of weakness, but doesn’t know if he could even manage words right now.

There's a long, long pause, complete silence in the absence of rushing water, and then a quiet breath. The stranger takes two steps and crouches down at Mangetsu’s side, dropping a dark blue robe over his shoulders. “Come on,” he says, still rough and low. “Someone might have heard that.”

If Jinpachi realizes what the noise was, he’ll try to put Mangetsu back in that damned pool, and Mangetsu would rather _die_. He breathes in, breathes out, snarls at his own weakness when his muscles don’t want to respond and forces himself up anyway. A scarred hand catches his arm on the way up, and the man braces him. His face is turned away, but in the half-light Mangetsu can make out scars, deep and old. Definitely a shinobi, but also just as definitely not one Mangetsu knows.

“Where are we?” he demands, looking around as the man tows him towards the light. It’s a cave, and Mangetsu can hear the sea, but it isn’t nearly as humid as Water Country usually is.

“An island,” the man says, pausing at the mouth of the cave and glancing out at the rocky beach beyond it. “Close to Lightning Country’s coast, and home to at least three groups of missing-nin. Kiri’s records put your last mission as passing by this place. I thought it was worth checking out.”

The mission. The mission with Jinpachi and a squad of tokubetsu jounin. Mangetsu hadn’t thought it would be all that dangerous, since there was another of the Seven Swordsmen coming, but clearly he’d underestimated Jinpachi’s capacity for treachery. A mistake; he should have remembered that the bastard murdered his own brother for a chance to join the Swordsmen, and that he didn’t take well to a lower caste boy ten years younger mastering all seven of the blades. Mangetsu grits his teeth, digs his fingernails into his palms and tries not to let the fury boil to the surface. He’s never gotten angry easily, but in this he thinks he has every right.

“Thank you,” he says, and the words break in his mouth. “Thank you for looking.” Because _gods_ , but it must have taken time. Time and effort, and Mangetsu hardly remembers that last mission, but he knows Jinpachi wouldn’t have been careless in hiding what he’d done.

Another pause, and the man turns his head. He looks at Mangetsu for a moment before he looks away, and says quietly, “It wasn’t for you. But—you're welcome.”

“Who—” Mangetsu starts, stumbling as step as the man pulls him forward, and he has to spend a moment remembering how to walk.

“Hoshigaki Kisame,” the stranger says shortly, and then, “Hang on to me.”

 _Kisame_? Mangetsu opens his mouth, not even sure what he wants to ask, but before he can get a word out the air around them warps. It feels like being caught in that current again, and Mangetsu has to swallow a cry as he lurches, straining against the man’s hold. The grip on his arm doesn’t waver, though, and an instant later Mangetsu’s sandals hit stone. Underground again, he thinks, slamming his eyes shut as his vision swims. Well-lit this time, at least, and nowhere near as cramped, with doors opening off the halls.

There's a breath, a quiet word that might be a curse from the stranger, and then a rustle. Mangetsu manages to get his eyes open in time to see the man pull a plain white porcelain mask from thin air and fit it over his face, hiding everything except his right eye. It’s an odd look, makes him strangely less menacing than the scars and the stare, but Mangetsu knows the value of a secret and doesn’t say anything.

The move is just in time, too; a second later, one of the doors along the hall creaks open, and a woman with blue hair steps out. She freezes at the sight of them, amber eyes flickering over the man, then down to Mangetsu before she looks back up.

“You're risking a lot being out in the open,” she says, cool and calculating, but with a touch of sharp interest buried under the words. “I didn’t know he meant that much to you.”

Mangetsu doesn’t have the faintest idea what they're talking about, but it’s clear the man does. He tenses faintly, and Mangetsu gets the distinct impression he’d rather be anywhere else right now. “I was able to help, so I did,” he says flatly.

The woman stares for a long moment, then tips her head to one side just faintly. “And what are the odds that you’ll keep helping?” she asks.

“Are you asking for help?” the man retorts.

“Yes.” The answer clearly takes the man by surprise, and the woman offers him the ghost of a smile, sad and tired. “There are lots of ways to save the world. Maybe I'm more interested in saving _my_ world first. As long as you're offering.”

The man doesn’t answer, just starts walking again, and Mangetsu follows, steady enough on his feet now that he at least doesn’t feel like he’s going to collapse. As he passes, the woman offers him a pretty smile, then turns and heads for the end of the hallway where the corridor slopes downwards. Mangetsu watches her disappear, still confused about what they could possibly have been talking about and more than a little suspicious. But—

Kisame. The stranger knows Kisame, and if Kisame is here he’ll likely know where Suigetsu is as well. This place is faintly unsettling, but for Kisame, for his brother, Mangetsu is more than willing to stay close.

Around a sharp corner, there are several more doors set into the walls, and the masked man stops in front of the middle one, rapping his knuckles against the wood three times and then stepping back. A pointed jerk of his head urges Mangetsu closer, and Mangetsu goes, though he keeps just far enough back to summon a jutsu if he needs to. Rescue doesn’t always have to mean friendlies, after all, and the secrecy is enough to put Mangetsu on edge.

Body language sliding towards annoyed, the masked man knocks again, louder this time, and adds a sharp, “It’s been a week. You can't _still_ be hungover. Get _up_.”

Behind the door, there's a loud thump, a groan. “I was _napping_!” an indignant and utterly familiar voice protests, and Mangetsu’s breath catches. He takes a step forward just as the door swings open, and Kisame's head immediately jerks around as he catches the movement.

Eerie eyes lock onto Mangetsu’s, and every line of Kisame's body goes perfectly still.

Mangetsu can't look away, either. He hardly even registers the masked man stepping back, fading out of sight, because he takes another step, reaching out—

With a low, hoarse sound, Kisame lunges, scooping Mangetsu up in his arms the way he used to after one of them got back from a long mission. Mangetsu hugs him back as hard as he’s able, breath escaping in a shaky rush as strong arms clutch him close. There's dark blue hair under his fingers, hot breath on his collarbone, and Kisame laughs like it’s been wrenched up from deep inside of him, all relief and joy and disbelief in equal measures.

“ _Mangetsu_ ,” he says, as if it’s an impossible thing.

Mangetsu twists his fingers into Kisame's hair and breathes, “It’s me, it’s me, I promise. I'm sorry, I was trapped—”

Kisame _growls_ , as deadly and fierce a sound as Mangetsu has ever heard from him, and his grip tightens. “I thought you were _dead_ ,” he says, grief and a confession all twisted up together.

The cold of the churning water is finally fading, and Mangetsu presses their foreheads together, stares into luminescent eyes as Kisame sinks down onto his knees. Easy enough to settle in his lap, legs braced on either side of his hips, and Mangetsu runs his fingers through soft hair, ghosts a touch over the slashed hitai-ate. It has, he’s realizing, been far, far longer than he thought, and the knowledge is chilling and unsettling in equal measure.

“I'm alive,” he says, and it’s aimed at both Kisame and himself.

Kisame laughs a little, ducking down to press his forehead against Mangetsu’s chest. “Always with the understatement,” he teases, and Mangetsu snorts, because it’s far from the first time Kisame has said it.

“Truth,” he counters, and cups Kisame's cheeks in his hands, gently tipping his face up. Kisame moves readily with the touch, arms tightening around Mangetsu’s back, and he’s smiling like every good dream in the world has become real all at once. “Truth,” he repeats more quietly, like a promise, and leans down.

Kissing Kisame feels like sunlight on his skin, warm and bright, and Mangetsu never, ever wants to stop.


End file.
